


All Things Considered

by rehaniah



Category: Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening
Genre: DA Origins Anders, Drinking in a tavern, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-05
Updated: 2015-11-05
Packaged: 2018-04-29 15:51:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5133334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rehaniah/pseuds/rehaniah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“All things considered, I’d rather be sitting in a tavern.” – Anders, Dragon Age Origins: Awakening</p>
<p>Anders finally talks the Warden into sitting down and having a drink with him. It yields some interesting results, as well as some insecurities.  </p>
<p>DAO Anders/F!Amell pairing set in or around the time of DAO Awakening.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All Things Considered

* * *

 

“Never?” Anders’ voice is incredulous, bordering on outright disbelief. “You mean… never _ever_?”

Across from him, the Warden’s gaze falls to the dregs in her ale mug. He feels a pang of guilt at the way her face flushes with embarrassment at his tone.

“It’s not like I’ve never wanted to, exactly,” is her softly spoken defence. “It’s just that the opportunity never really… presented itself.”

Realising his blunder, Anders hastily tries to make up for his less than tactful response to such an admission (even if it was a wholly surprising one). Honestly, he’d been trying for weeks to get the Warden-Commander into a tavern, to get her to just focus on _herself_ for once rather than everyone else and to see what she was like when alcohol eased away that burdened countenance.

And now that he’d finally managed to do so –on a scouting mission which had turned up very little in the way of darkspawn, but which had led him and the commander to the outskirts of Amaranthine just as the sun was setting– he’d managed to go and mess it up.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” he says quickly, ducking his head to try and catch her eyes once more. _Maker, he loved staring into those eyes_ : they held such mystery to him. Even battle-worn and haunted as they were they still retained such kindness, such compassion, even to those who didn’t deserve it. His Warden –this woman who had so abruptly barrelled into his life only to irrevocably change it– was like no one else he’d ever encountered, and he wasn’t ashamed to admit that he was quite smitten with her.

Of course, that may also have something to do with the fact that she had saved his life from Templars who would’ve happily strung him up for his latest escape. But even without that, Anders is sure that if she’d simply crossed his path, he would’ve been unable _not_ to take a second look. And _yes_ , admittedly he did that with most women. But he’d never remained quite so captivated, quite so bewitched, by one before. So much so that he’d gone on to take far more than a mere second look.

Truth be told, he was probably well into the hundreds by now as far as looks in her direction were concerned. He spent most of his day stealing glances at her shapely chest or her pert behind; her armour never fitting tight enough for his liking, but at the same time, keeping her delectable body under wraps from any other, unworthy, prying eyes.

He endeavours to flash his most charming smile at her when her gaze finally peeks back up at him, his voice light as he endeavours to excuse his less-than-subtle reaction. “I just didn’t think it was, well, possible to come out of the Circle unscathed. In any number of respects.”

Her lips twitch into a tiny smile at his joke. Even if it was a rather lame one. He beams at her and moves his hand across the grimy tabletop so as to take hold of hers. Her eyes flicker to the connection but she doesn’t pull away: a good sign.

“I’m sorry,” he says again, quietly, just to make certain she had forgiven him fully.

Her responding smile told him she had.

“It’s not like all of us were off finding dark corners, Anders,” she chides with shy playfulness. It always surprised Anders that, for someone who could be so fierce in battle, she remained remarkably timid when it came to… other aspects of life. (Although, given her previous admission, such behaviour did make slightly more sense to him now.) “Some of us actually used our time in The Circle to study.”

He can’t help but grin at the latter statement. “Oh, I studied, alright. Just not using books.” He waggles his eyebrows suggestively.

She lets out a giggle: a sound that delighted Anders’ ears, all the more so because it was so seldom heard from his usually stoic, usually sober, commander. “Oh, I’ve no doubt about that,” she agrees, sending him a look of exasperated fondness.

He holds her gaze, looking deep into her eyes whilst continuing to clasp his fingers around hers. Her skin felt soft under his touch and he wanted to feel more of it, wanted to feel how soft other parts of her were…

She’s the one who breaks the contact, abruptly tearing her eyes away as if jerking herself from a trance, her expression turning bashful, nervous.

She pulls her hand out from under his with an almost apologetic smile as she makes to stand. “Well, erm, I should probably call it a night.”

Not wanting to lose her company so soon –or at all, for that matter– Anders goes back on the charm offensive. “Surely you don’t have to go so soon..? You can stay for one more drink, at least,” he coaxes, moving to stand so that she would have to brush past him in order to get to the stairs (he’d got them a table in one of the darkest corners of the tavern, just because… well, because it was his habit).

She hesitates at his coaxing and he can see that she’s tempted by his offer, glancing almost wistfully back down at the table and at Anders himself, but her ingrained pragmatism wins out as she gives a shake her head. She begins to edge her way round the table, uttering remorsefully as she does: “No, I think I’ve had enough already. It’s not like I’m all that experienced at holding my liquor, either.”

As if Fate wanted to prove it, she promptly stumbles over a chair leg and would’ve ended up crashing to the floor had Anders not flung his arms out just in time.

There’s the briefest pause before she erupts into a fit of drunken giggles, her expression as embarrassed as it was amused. “See what I mean?” she gasps, looking up at Anders from her new position within his arms.

It takes Anders longer than he cared to admit to recover from the surprise of suddenly feeling the Warden’s lithe form pressed so closely to his own. Nevertheless he manages to rally back quickly, grinning at her as he gentlemanly hoists her back to a more upright position.

“Nonsense,” he proclaims with bright enthusiasm. “You just need more practise.”

“Pfft.” She laughs again, her hand reaching up to give his shoulder a playful shove. “Now you sound like Ohgren,” she teases.

Anders expels a gasp of horror at the statement as he slaps a palm dramatically over his heart. “You wound me, my dear Warden.”

The happy smile fades almost as quickly as her eyes drop away from him. An abrupt reticence rises into her expression, an unsure kind of anxiety that produces only a single, despairing utterance. “Oh, Anders,” she murmurs, in a voice that was barely louder than a breath.

She suddenly looked so sad, so forlorn, that his hold (which had remained even after he’d propped her back onto her feet) tightens about her waist. “What is it?” he asks, concernedly, completely unsure as to what had caused such a rapid change.

But almost as soon as his question was expressed, she gives a shake of her head –apparently at herself rather than him since her face remained downturned– and when she looks back up, her smile is restored; but he can tell all too easily that it’s a strained one, a facade to cover up something deeper, something she didn’t want him to see.

“It’s nothing,” she answers, although Anders doesn’t buy the assurance for a minute.

Thus, when she tries to move out of his grasp, to slide past him and leave, he doesn’t let her. Instead his hands tighten firmly about her robe-covered waist.

Realising his intent, she softly warns: “Anders, let me go.”

He ducks his head down, bringing his face directly in front of hers so that she had nowhere else to look but at him, noticing all too well the flush of heated color that rises in her cheeks as he does so.

“No,” he answers firmly. “I want to know what’s wrong.”

He sees the stubbornness, the unwillingness, bleed into her gaze, yet her voice remains quiet when she speaks. “Anders, please.” Her tone is imploring, tired even. “Just let me go upstairs.”

He feels frustrated. Frustrated at the way she’d suddenly changed, suddenly shut herself off from him as if she didn’t trust him.

“Fine,” he says mulishly, “I’ll let you go… But only if you kiss me.”

Her eyes widen, such a proposition clearly taking her completely by surprise. Truth be told, the words he’d experienced falling from his lips had taken him rather by surprise as well, but he wasn’t about to back out now.

“Anders, don’t’ be silly,” she says reproachfully, after recovering from her stunned state.

“I’m not being silly,” he counters, beginning to warm up to the idea, his unplanned stratagem. “You’re the one who’s suddenly trying to run away from me. And here I thought we were friends.” He lets his voice mirror his confusion at the turn of events, but keeps the tone akin to his habitual light-heartedness. After all, he was never one to make a situation more serious than it needed to be.

His accusation seems to affect her and she replies with gentle contriteness, looking up at him affectionately. “Anders, we _are_ friends.”

The answer mollifies him. Somewhat. At the same time, he still wasn’t any closer to understanding her sudden reserve. He could tell it went deeper than mere timidity or nerves.

“Well then,” he maintains, “Kiss me to prove it.” His eyebrows rise with mischievous expectation, causing her expression to turn exasperated.

“That’s not how people generally prove friendships, Anders.” The denouncement was severely undermined by her inability to stop her mouth from twitching at each corner.

He bats his eyes as he leans down to purr: “It’s how I prove _my_ friendships.”

The grin finally breaks free, spreading across her face and making her eyes sparkle up at him. “Anders,” she murmurs in objection again, giving a half-hearted push against his chest, as if to make sure he wasn’t about to move.

Which he wasn’t.

“Come on… It’s just one kiss,” he coos, his voice sliding from playful to persuading, the thumbs at her waist beginning to drift in soothing but tantalising circles. “Just one kiss and then I’ll let you go.”

“It’s not you being able to let go that I’m worried about.”

The utterance was so quiet, so muted as hazel eyes stared dazedly at the collar of his robes, that Anders almost doesn’t catch it, but as his mind registers just what his beloved warden had said, the smile that spreads across his face was one of the biggest he’s ever given.

“ _What_ was that?” he says down to her with an entirely pleased, entirely smug, slyness.

Those same eyes immediately widen and then hastily snap themselves shut, a groan of clear mortification echoing out as the auburn-haired head drops to bury itself against his chest.

But Anders isn’t about to let her off that easily. Not when he’s finally received confirmation that all his charming hadn’t gone unnoticed or, even worse, unwanted.

“Come now, my dear Warden,” he cajoles, “How can you possibly disclose something like that and then try to hide from me?”

He only grins harder when all he receives is another mortified groan, muffled into the downy feathers of his pauldron.

“Oh, W _aaa_ rden,” he coos, as his long fingers glide round to dance teasingly along the small of her back, uncaring as to what type of picture the pair of them made to any observers. Their little alcove was as out of the way as it could be after all, and the few patrons who still remained in the tavern seemed far more interested in slumping over their drinks than paying attention to the hanky-panky going on in the corner.

As one last endeavour to get her to look at him, Anders gives a small jiggle of the shoulder beneath her forehead. When that yields no better result than his previous attempts, he decides there’s nothing left to do but take decisive action.

“Well, then, if you’re not even going to look at me after saying something like that, I suppose I’d better…” he leaves the sentence to linger for a tormenting moment, before exuberantly finishing: “Take things into my own hands!”

Without giving her a second to fight it, he’s ducked an arm under her knees and then lifted her straight off the floor, swooping her into his secure –not to mention, enthusiastic– embrace.

“ _Ahh!_ ” the warden yelps, caught wholly unawares by his action, her small hands instantly rising to cling onto his chest whilst wide eyes dart to the ground which now resided a good number of feet below her.

“Oh, there you are!” he exclaims in playful surprise as he finally gets to lay eyes on her (extremely reddened) face. “I was beginning to think you were trying to make a nest in my robes.” He begins walking towards the nearby staircase.

“Anders, what are you _doing?!_ ” she hisses up at him, her body squirming this way and that as she endeavoured to see a way down that, evidently, didn’t involve punching him square in the face.

“Why, I’m escorting you up to the room, my dear lady Warden. I am, after all, a _very good friend_ and someone you yourself just admitted you don’t want to let go of, so I’m simply saving you the heartache of–”  

She cuts off his oh-so-cheery explanation with a hissed scolding, “Anders, this is cra–”, but her rising tone comes to an abrupt halt when she notices just how many eyes had turned to look curiously in their direction.

Her expression reverts from dismayed anger back to flushing embarrassment in a matter of moments, and not even Anders’ jaunty declaration to the room at large of “Don’t mind us, gentlemen” seems to lessen it.

All his little warden seems able to do is groan, “Oh Maker,” and bury her face back into his robes to chant under her breath: “Please say this isn’t happening. Maker, please let this all be just a really, really bad dream…”

“You know, it’s a good thing I’m not the sort to take offence easily,” he chides good-naturedly as he makes his way to the top of the dusty stairs. “As for the dreaming, well–” He reaches the door to his rented room for the night, budging it open easily with a hip and then shutting it behind him with his boot. “–I wasn’t actually planning on us _sleeping_ for a while yet.” He tries to make his leer more seductive than salacious, but isn’t overly sure he manages it. Not bothering to be concerned, he promptly shrugs it off as he lays his longed-for prize down on the waiting mattress, effortlessly situating his lanky form atop her smaller one.

At the sensation of finally being set down, her hands jerk away from where they’d been scrunched over her face as her head promptly begins craning from side to side.

Realising that she was now in his room, though, doesn’t quite have the calming effect Anders would have assumed it would.

“Oh my god,” is her strained –even slightly hysterical-sounding– exclamation.

He chuckles as he leans his head down towards her. “Well, I have been known to be called _that_ by quite a few women in the past, but you can start by calling me Anders if you like.”

He leans down to kiss her, to finally lay his mouth upon those delectable lips that he’s fantasied about tasting for so many months… only to find his face being mushed against a speedily held-up palm, providing a irrefutable block separating him from his desired destination.

“What’s the matter?” he asks, reeling back with genuine perplexity and rubbing his squashed nose.

“What’s the matter?!” his warden echoes, in a way that made it sound as if _he_ was the one suddenly acting strange. Her voice still held that high-pitched tenor too – not that Anders minded, of course: he was used to women employing high-pitched voices around him. It was just that the warden’s tone seemed less amatory as… angry.

As though to add proof to his suspicions, her next statement comes out in nothing short of an incredulous hiss. “Anders, what on earth are you thinking of carrying me to your room? We can’t do this!”

“Why not?” he rejoinders, still completely confused as to what exactly had gone wrong. _(Andraste’s meatballs, she’d felt so good in his arms...)_

If anything, his response only seems to make his warden even more agitated, her answer coming out as the most stuttering and nonsensical that he’d ever heard from such a proficient woman. “W – why? Why?! B-Because we can’t – we _can’t!_ I…”

There’s an entirely breathless pause on her end, and then the body beneath him suddenly begins to struggle. “No, I really have to go,” she exclaims, putting her hands against Anders’ chest and suddenly shoving.

His body is shunted back, if only from sheer surprise, as his warden’s demeanour turns, practically instantly, into full-on panic.

Anders doesn’t know what to make of it. He simply finds himself lurching after her as she suddenly propels herself off the mattress and towards the door as if The Blight itself were snapping at her heels.

“Wait,” he cries, only just managing to grab hold of her before she reaches the door. “What’s the matter – what’s wrong? I don’t understand!”

It’s only his last statement that seems to stay her, to impel her somewhat towards attempting to calm herself into a less manic state. He watches in concern as she struggles to get herself under control, before she brings her face to look up at his.

“I… I’m sorry, Anders. I... I can’t do this.” Her eyes are remorseful, her entire appearance laden with regret and what appeared to be something like shame.

“Why?” is Anders immediate (and still bewildered) rejoinder, “I thought you liked me?”

“I do,” she answers instantly, fervently, and then seems to regret doing so, her face becoming overshadowed with something akin to distress at revealing such a truth.

“Then what’s the matter?” he exclaims. “I like you. You like me. This is what people who like each other do, isn’t it?” As she begins shaking her head once more, his voice is left to grow even bewildered. “I don’t understand what the problem is–”

And then, in relief, the answer suddenly comes to him as to what the problem must be (and he reproaches himself for not realising it sooner).

“ _Oh!_ I know!” he cries, suddenly excited and pleased that he’d figured it out. “I’m supposed to buy you dinner, aren’t I? That’s it, isn’t it?! You know, I’d heard that that’s how things are customarily done, but when you’ve only ever known The Circle you tend not to think about the outside world’s wooing procedures – and, you know, I figured since we know each other so well anyway: I mean, what with the darkspawn-fighting, innocents-saving, damp-tent-camping incidents and all that–”

Yet when she cuts off his revelatory explanation, he’s disheartened to notice how unhappy she still looked ( _he’d really thought he’d hit the nail on the head with that dinner issue…_ ).

As she speaks again, her voice sounds no different than before. “Anders, it’s not any of those things. I know what you’re like and I wouldn’t expect you to be any other way. Or want you to be.”

He blinks in surprise at the latter part of her statement (he couldn’t remember anyone saying such a thing to him before) but all too quickly the gist of the former part catches up with him.

“Then what _is_ it?” he demands despairingly. “What’s wrong? Tell me and I’ll fix it!”

“You _can’t_ fix it, Anders,” she insists.

He jumps in to protest against such an absurd statement. “I’ll have you know that I am an _extremely_ accomplished mage! And not just in your average, run-of-the-mill, woo-look-at-my-lightning-bolts magics but in a whole variety of mystical and phantasmagorical phenomena. So whatever _problem_ ” –he puts emphasis on the word to show how little he viewed such an excuse– “you could possibly have, I assure you I can indeed fix it.” Abruptly, his face takes on the mien of one who’s just had a rather worrying brainwave. “You’re not really a man, are you?”

Seemingly despite herself, the warden shakes her head, a humoured smile itching over her lips. “No, I’m not a man,” she assures him. But the light-hearted note dwindles all too quickly into nothing at her next remark, murmured in a tone that would have been fond had it not sounded quite so desolate. “Maker, Anders, why do you have to be so adorable. Why do you have to be so… you?”

In spite of the dispirited undertone, his chest puffs out with pride at the complimentary allusion.

“Well,” he preens, “I have been told that that is one of my best assets.” He goes on more seriously. “Look, whatever’s wrong, we can talk about it, just come over here and sit with me.” Instinctively making the most of her less flighty condition, he takes hold of both her hands (they felt cold now) and endeavours to gently lead her back towards the bed.

She tentatively follows for a moment, but then seems to come back to herself, stopping halfway across the room and refusing to go further. “No, Anders, you don’t understand–”

“Well, it’s very difficult to understand when you’re not giving me any explanations!” The declaration reflects his exasperation as he finally throws his hands up into the air.

She doesn’t retaliate in kind to his outburst. If anything, her demeanour simply appears… accepting, relieved even.

“I should go,” she whispers in a hoarse voice as she turns back towards the door.

“No!” He’s there before she even reaches it, pressing his hand securely against the wood and caging her in (albeit inadvertently), cornering her so that she had no other choice but to listen to him.

“No,” he repeats, “If you’re going to walk out on me, the least I deserve is a proper explanation.” His manner is probably the most serious he’s ever used around her and he doesn’t like having to use it, but he wanted _answers_.

From just in front of him, he sees her shoulders rise and fall as she sighs heavily. “Anders,” she begins, but he cuts her off, with just as much determination as before.

“No. You tell me why things have changed. Why you’ve suddenly decided you don’t trust me.”

She half turns her head towards him, so that he can see the profile of her face, along with the pain etched across it.

“Anders, that’s not it. I trust you. I really do. But I’m just not… I’m just not the type of girl for you.”

It was a lame excuse, even by his standards, and his response is far from impressed, resounding with heavy scepticism. “Oh, and why’s that?”

She gives another sigh.

“It’s just,” she begins, before trailing off and trying again. “Look, I just don’t think I’d…” She trails off again as a marked frown flashes across her brow, but it appeared one much closer to despair than annoyance. Eventually she hurries out with the words, “Look, you know what I’m like: I’m boring and plain and I’d much rather be in a library than having a good time. And now you’ve found out that my experience pretty-much reaches zilch in anything remotely romantic so it’s hardly going to be exciting for you, is it? I mean, honestly, what good is someone like that to you?”

Anders can instantly tell that such a justification was most assuredly _not_ what the real problem was, but he plays along with it anyway, refuting in a tone that was much more on a par with his usual disposition. “My lady, I assure you that none of those descriptions are accurate. Except maybe the library one. You’ve got nothing to be ashamed of. I like you. Don’t you like me?” As he asks he leans his head closer to hers, brushing just the tip of his nose against the shell of her ear.

His gentle action only seems to make whatever inner turmoil she was struggling with worse, even as she turns her head that bit nearer to him, seeking him out even if unknowingly. “I… I do. Of course I do.” For all its obvious sincerity, her confirmation is barely louder than a whisper.

“S _ooo_ ,” he murmurs against her with oh-so-patient persistence, “What’s the problem?”

He can tell the exact moment when she decides to give up the charade; her body sagging in surrender as she finally relates the root cause for her trying so hard to get away from their current situation, from _him_.

“Anders, my… my body would disappoint you. Honestly, it wasn’t all that great before I left the Circle and now it’s covered in scars and burn marks and there’s arrow holes everywhere and this huge welt that practically covers my entire right leg… Basically, being an underequipped and undermanned Grey Warden on the run doesn’t exactly leave you without several long-standing mementos.”

From his position, Anders blinks. Then frowns. Then blinks again.

“…That’s _it?_ ” is the only thing he can possibly think to say in response to such an ‘explanation’.

_That_ was the reason why she’d suddenly become so cagey, so scared – because of a few scars?!

Disbelief resounds it way through his entire form as he uses his hands to swing her round to fully face him. “Sweetheart, do you really think I care about any of that?”

She answers back immediately, clearly fixed in her belief.

“Honestly? Yes. Why wouldn’t you? _I_ care about them. I can barely look in a mirror most days until after I’m fully dressed. And aren’t men supposed to, you know, like touching and things… I can’t imagine it’s very nice if all you get to feel is scar tissue.” Her eyes dart away as she shuffles her feet self-consciously, her expression one of the most pitiful Anders had ever seen.

“Sweetheart.” He cups his palms over her cheeks, impelling her gaze back to his own. “It’s true, we do like to touch,” he verifies with humoured patience, endeavouring not to let a grin slip out at just how absurd he found his little warden’s line of reasoning. “But it has far less to do with what we’re than who it belongs to, who’s underneath the skin.” He abruptly frowns. “Not in a blood mage-y way, you understand. I don’t want to go trying to find what’s actually _under_ the skin–”

She chuckles, giving a small, exasperated roll of her eyes before letting her head droop to rest against his shoulder once more. “Oh, Anders,” she sighs with a wistful type of affection, “Why are you so…”

“Me?” he finishes for her.

She nods, radiating hopelessness, which only served to make Anders feel even more amused.

“Oh, I don’t know,” he muses pensively, idly smoothing his hands up and down her back. “I suppose it must just be my curse to endure these ravishing good looks and interminable charm.” He refocuses on her. “A better question is: why are you so concerned about something I couldn’t care less about?”

“Anders–”

“And if you say the words ‘Anders, you don’t understand’ one more time,” he breathes hotly down at her, “I’m going to throw you down right here on this” –his gaze flickers momentarily to the ground beneath their feet– “ _extremely_ dirty floor, and lick every single part of your naked body until you are driven so mad with desire and longing that you don’t even remember your own name, let alone what absurdity you’d convinced yourself would actually deter me.”

As her suddenly-wide eyes regard him with unblinking shock, he smiles brightly, whilst allowing her to see just the tiniest glimpse of resolve so that she understood that that he most certainly _wasn’t_ joking.

She eventually manages to find her voice, albeit a hoarser one than normal. “Um… I’m not sure what to say.” She looked no less than stunned by his lascivious ultimatum. Yet, he could see that beneath that there also lurked something that looked markedly like… _intrigue_.

Anders can’t help but smile in appreciation at such a thing, but at the same he knows his warden isn’t quite ready for something so… intense. Not on her first outing, at least.

Instead he crosses that invisible boundary hitherto separating them and wraps his arms fully around her slighter form, holding her eyes steadily as he speaks. “Say you want me.”

With no excuse left to defend, his warden no longer holds back from answering – with a quiet but heart-wrenchingly earnest sincerity.

“I do. I do want you.”

Anders has to stop a gleeful little giggle from escaping. Just hearing her say the words did funny things to his stomach (and other, significantly _lower_ , parts of his anatomy).

He manages to continue, skimming his hands down her shoulders and taking hold of her own so as to draw her after him.

“In that case, now is the time that we move over to the bed,” he says, smoothly guiding as he walks backwards, tugging her gently but firmly after him.

Just as they reach the edge of the bed though, she abruptly pulls back. “Ah – Wait!” she declares.

Feeling his hope suddenly being derailed once more, the plaintive whine leaves him before he knows it. “Ugh! What is it _now?_ Do I have to mention the dirty floor again?!”

For better or worse, the only thing his threat does is cause a snort of laughter to issue forth from her. Thankfully, it’s hastily followed by a hurried explanation.

“No, I wasn’t saying–” she huffs exasperatedly before beginning again, her insecurity obviously far from gone completely. “What I meant was: Should we really do this? What if it changes things for us?”

Anders response is merely to look back at her placidly. “What if it does?”

Taken aback by his clear disregard of such a drawback, she prompts, “Well, wouldn’t that be awkward?”

Anders has to smile at her uncertainty since it reminds him of just how inexperienced she was regarding the whole situation (unlike him, of course). He resumes their path towards the bed as he answers, pleased when she trustingly resumes following his lead.

“I’m not planning on making it awkward,” he reassures. “Are you?”

“What?” she says, plainly startled by such a query, before hurriedly assuring, “No. No, of course I’m not.”

“Well, that’s okay then, isn’t it?” Anders says serenely, as they finally reach the mattress and he’s able to sit himself down, keeping hold of her hands as she remains standing in front him, her stance radiating concern over this latest idea that had popped into her head.

“But doesn’t it, I don’t know, become awkward anyway?” she asks worriedly.

“Only if we let it.” Anders raises the warden’s delicate hands to his mouth, laying a kiss on each whilst observing the way her breathing hitches as he does so. He brings them back down to his lap in order to continue. “Look, the way I see it is: We’ve both decided that this is what we want. So how about we just have fun tonight and see what tomorrow brings? If you want more, I’m certain I won’t be against it.” He gives a telling smirk, before concluding mildly, “If you don’t, then… so be it.”

“But what about what you want?” is her immediate and earnest reply – something Anders should probably have anticipated since his warden never seemed to stop thinking of others, him included. It did make a nice change of pace for him though, to have to someone so obviously concerned over his feelings for once.

Even so, his answer is the only one he could possibly give after waiting so damn long to finally get to this point.

“Sweetheart,” he purrs, drawing her closer so that he can hold her eyes with shameless intent, “What I want is you on this bed. With me. So that I can finally experience the thing I’ve been dreaming about ever since I saw you in that dank hallway covered with darkspawn innards.”

His declaration has the effect of leaving her mouth speechless but her eyes glimmering helplessly with desire ( _was he good or what?_ ).

Taking full advantage of her state, he inclines his head upward in order to brush his lips against hers, taking delight in the way they tremble timidly but willingly against his.

The kiss isn’t long, more like a taster. When he pulls away, her cheeks are flushed but her gaze has turned questioning.

“Y-You’ve had dreams about me?” she asks him, obviously taken aback by such a notion.

“Are you saying you’ve never had one about me?” he rejoinders, giving a small pout whilst letting his hands begin to drift delicately over her body. “Not even a little one?”

Her eyelids flutter slightly at the sensation of his touch, her fingers even going so far as to brush a few wayward strands from his hairline, but she manages to answer. “Well… I dreamt that you and Ohgren got married once.”

“Urgh!” His face abruptly sours. “That’s not a dream – that’s an unconscionable nightmare! I hope I was dead at least.”

Her eyes grow briefly thoughtful. “Well, no,” she admits, matter-of-factly, “…But you looked awfully pretty in your wedding dress.”

The grin she concludes with is entirely, unrepentantly, mischievous.

In fact, she looked so pleased with herself that Anders was left with nothing else to do but let out a grunt of dismal horror and then, without warning… launch himself off the bed in order to snatch hold of her waist.

She squeals in surprise as he tosses her onto the mattress, not giving her a moment to rise before he’s leaped right back on top of her to let out an animalistic growl of displeasure.

She giggles wildly at his pseudo fit of pique, the reaction having the effect of dispelling the lingering fretfulness that seemed to cling to her.

As it fades, she reaches up to stroke her palm over his cheek, ghosting her thumb over his lips and smiling when he gives a playful nip to the fleshy pad.

“So, uh… what happens now?” she asks shyly, looking to him for direction in the face of the unfamiliar.

Direction which he was more than willing to provide.

“Now comes the fun bit, my lady,” he proclaims with uninhibited enthusiasm, bringing another humoured smile to her lips.

She brushes her hands over his cheeks, her touch gentle, caring but still eager. “Tell me what to do, okay?” she whispers to him.

“Sweetheart,” he purrs, “Trust me, you don’t want me to tell you what to do…”

His reaction causes her to blink at him in momentary confusion, until he finishes with a flourish:

“You want me to _show_ you. Which, I’m pleased to relate, I am _all_ too happy to do.”

His grin is mirrored on her face as he bends his head forward to finally capture her lips…

**Author's Note:**

> I've discovered that I find it much more difficult to write DAO Anders than DA2 Anders, so I apologise if he seems OOC. 
> 
> There was also supposed to be smut but in the end, I had to cut it off because the fic was just getting too long. There is a second chapter in the works (and a third...), but as to whether it’ll ever be finished is anyone’s guess, due to my muse’s habit of feeding me inspiration in unhelpfully scatty pieces!
> 
> Thanks everyone ;)


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